


Darling

by orphan_account



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I hit out at Hendo but I love him really okay, M/M, Post-Champions League Final 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 06:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: All Harry wants to do is go to forget. He’s had this heavy weight around his neck for days, and there’s only one person who knows how to get it off.Or, Harry Kane is sad about the UCL and goes for some cuddles with the gaffer.





	Darling

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sad. I’m very sad. And so, I bet, is Harry Kane 100.

Gareth ordered the driver for him, because ‘the Nation’s Sweetheart’ was a whopper of an understatement and beneath the years of training and discipline and hard work, Harry Kane was just the luckiest boy on the field.

When they get off the coach, the goodbyes are quiet, soft - Tottenham is a club that does emotions well (all the bloody Europeans, Dele has joked) - and Harry buckles his seatbelt with the weight of that same stone tied to his ribs, but a kind of numbness that’s really quite comforting, for the time being. He couldn’t be alone tonight - he’d had Hugo as a roomie last night, but they were both too exhausted for much conversation and had called it a night as quickly as possible. He knows that Dele and Eric and Winks has talked things over in their room, but he hasn’t had that luxury yet. 

‘Their room.’ Harry chuckles to himself, amused at the idea of Very Anglophone Harry Winks explaining his preferred rooming situation to Very Francophone Serge Aurier as he shifted his things to go and be with Eric and Dele. It’s always the same, has been for a while, whatever the rooming rotations for that hotel. Dele and Eric are usually put together, but Harry always slips away from his roommate with an explanation that’s seemingly short, sweet and innocent (just like him, Harry smiles to himself) and goes to join them. Harry wonders how they decide which beds to sleep in. Could they fit all together? Eric and Dele are very tall, tho, and Harry’s not really that little, not when he’s not a Deledier sandwich. Maybe Eric on the couch? (if one of them had to give up the bed, he’d insist it were him, Harry is certain) Or maybe two in one bed, one in the other? (Harry can’t imagine Dele giving up starfish space for this and smirks to himself again). 

He busies himself with these idle thoughts as the car speeds through North London to an apartment that isn’t his, and a man who is.

He thanks the driver, who has been so gloriously respectful all evening, not asked one thing, not made one comment, only smiled and wished him goodnight, with a cheerful accented ‘up the spurs!’ 

The luggage has gone back to Harry’s own apartment, but Harry takes the keycard out of his wallet and quietly shuts the door behind him. Harry looks for the lift button with a foggy brain and eventually finds it - funnily enough, exactly where he left it last time.

When it arrives, Harry shuffles in like he’s in a trance. His autopilot kicks in and he steps out on the third floor, looking for apartment 3B. He presses the doorbell, not wanting to use the keycard and shock Gareth. He waits impatiently at the door, his body a weird mixture of sleepy and alert. After a minute, he hears the lock turn and he smiles before he even sees the face on the other side. His sun, his sky, his stars.

‘Hello, darling.’

Gareth’s voice is like a warm cup of tea on a rainy day and he ushers Harry in. Harry stumbles across the threshold and vaguely registers the click of the door before Gareth turns back to him. 

It’s all Harry can do not to cry as he feels the strong arms wrap around him, and slides his face into the juncture between Gareth’s neck and shoulder, as though they were designed to slot together like so many puzzle pieces.

‘You did such a good job, Harry.’ he says softly, his warm breath tickling Harry’s neck. The words fall onto him like drops sunlight and he basks in the glow as time slips by. Gareth keeps rubbing his hands across Harry’s back, circular, hypnotic motions that swirl him out of dull ache he’s felt for the last 24 hours. ‘I’m so, so proud of you.’ he whispers, almost fervently. ‘Of you, of all your hard work, of everything you’ve become. You did So well.’ He’s kissing him now, punctuating his emotions with feathery kisses to Harry’s shoulder, his collarbone, his jaw. He pulls Harry back and looks into his eyes.

‘You’re so good, Harry,’ he murmurs, irisés locked into Harry’s like they were meant to fit too. ‘So good.’

And then his lips are on Harry’s, and Harry barely registers before he’s kissing back, hungry and open and  wanting . Their mouths slide over each other, Harry’s lips soft and pliant as Gareth presses deeper into him, every atom of his being. All the feelings he’s been holding back, the shock, the disbelief, the shame, the anger, the disappointment, the _guilt_ , wash through him as tears begin to pour down his cheeks.

‘I wanted to do it.’ he sobs against Gareth’s lips, as the older man kisses the corner of his mouth. ‘I wanted to prove them wrong.’ Gareth kisses the tears off his cheeks, paying no heed to the salty bitterness and still caressing Harry’s neck. ‘After Croatia - and then all - everything this year, all the injuries - fucking, bloody Delph,’ he whimpers. Gareth can’t help a snort at this and even Harry smiles a little.

‘You have nothing to prove, Harry.’ Gareth shakes his head, holding Harry’s in his hands. ‘I know how you feel, I really do, but this is one game. One season. You’re so young. Tottenham doesn’t die tonight!’ He smiles at the thought, and Harry is so enamoured that he has to close his eyes for a second and ground himself. ‘Losing one game doesn’t mean you’re done for, no matter the stakes. To dare is to do, isn’t it? If you didn’t dare, no one did.’

Harry sniffs and smiles into another kiss. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers, meaning every letter more than he can express.

‘My darling,’ is all that Gareth says, kissing him back. They revel in each other for a minute more - no schedules, no early mornings to consider. No training, no press, not a thing. Just each other, Harry and his laugh and his boundless energy, and Gareth and his smile and his healing touch, and a world that doesn’t know everything, actually. 

They smile as they break apart, and Harry keeps his arms around Gareth’s neck. It’s a safety thing, a comfort thing - an anchor, perhaps. His anchor smiles at his and then down to his jacket. ‘Now, you look rather wet - it never rains but it pours, eh?’

Harry looks bemusedly down at himself to find a soaked suit jacket, which makes them both laugh quietly as Gareth undoes his buttons and hangs it up on the shelf. Harry feels a little like a rag doll - a tall, limb-y, Champions League Finalist rag doll, and smiles as Gareth places a hand on his lower back and looks sideways into the flat.

‘Shall we, my darling?’ Gareth smiles with a filthy undertone no photographer could capture, and it makes Harry weak at the knees. ‘However much Jordan’s enjoying being Liverpool’s skipper, he hasn’t a shade on you, Captain Kane.’

Harry chokes and darkens to a deep shade that doesn’t support Tottenham at all. ‘Please,’ he whimpers, sounding sluttier than he’d possibly imagined.

‘Ooh, I like that.’ Gareth smirks and nods towards his bedroom. ‘Come on,’ he says, his voice dark and husky. ‘Let’s see what other noises England’s skipper can make.’ 


End file.
